


Cross Over

by Anonymous_1701



Category: Fred Astaire - Fandom, Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers - Fandom, Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers Movies, Ginger Rogers - Fandom
Genre: American (US) Actors RPF - Freeform, Consensual Infidelity, F/M, Golden Age Hollywood, Inspired by Real Events, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_1701/pseuds/Anonymous_1701
Summary: Ginger Rogers contemplates her life at the end.  A life well lived is it's own reward, isn't it?"In the end, everyone is aware of this:nobody keeps any of what he has,and life is only a borrowing of bones."~ Pablo Neruda, from “October Fullness,”
Relationships: Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers, Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Cross Over

Cross Over

April 25, 1995

Ginger woke up abruptly to the sound of silence. All around her the house slept – her assistant, the doctor’s assistant, the Christian Science practitioner. It was exceedingly early in the morning and the sun had not even risen over the desert. She had always been an early riser. She laid there for a while, unmoving, and contemplated her situation.

Flashes of images tugged at her memory. Several doctors, hushed voices, needles and moving her into her bed after she had fallen again. Her broken hip from four years ago ached again. Pain lancing throughout her body in sharp stabs. Heaviness, so much heaviness. She realized that somewhere in the room was a heart monitor, beeping along quietly but steadily. She struggled to sit up, pulling at several pillows. The effort winded her, and she gave up. She sank back into them and listened to the birds chirp through the open window. She had insisted that her windows be open, since they refused to move her sick bed out to the porch off her bedroom. She had always adored sleeping outside. She had started that tradition with Lew.

Lew was her second husband, and one she was still friends with. The image of his smiling face came to mind. She regretted not being able to make it work with him, but she had refused to give up her career and he refused to give up the drink. She was born to entertain; how could she possibly give that up and how on earth did he not understand that? Lew did not like being Mr. Ginger Rogers. As Ginger’s career rose, Lew’s fell and he became distant, angry, and resentful. He raged against sharing his wife with another man. Ginger had made it clear early on, that her relationship with Fred Astaire was non-negotiable. She knew, from third hand sources, that Lew and Frank Sinatra, a friend of Fred’s, had had a friendly discussion. That discussion had revolved around punishment if Lew should ever decided to out them as a couple or touch herself in anger again. Lew had taken the hint and he and Ginger had parted as friends, more or less, eventually. Fred had never mentioned it to Ginger, and she had never been sure if he even knew. Nonetheless, she appreciated her friends trying to look out for her.

She had not parted as friends with her next husband, Jack “the Marine” Briggs. How could she have been so swept away with wartime patriotism? Why on earth had she thought it would be a good idea to marry a Marine, with whom she had little in common? In fact, Jack had more in common with Lew. Neither wanted to be the Mister Ginger Rogers 

He mind drifted along familiar roads to her next husband, and failure, Jacques. She could not really blame him for cheating on her. After all, she had been doing that all her life, practically. Still, he had been a fun vacation from reality until it was not any fun at all. 

William. Sweet William, the one who had tried his absolute best to make her happy and take care of her. Sweet William, who was married to his career and the bottle that Ginger abhorred. No deal.  


Her mind wandered through her collection of lovers and might-have-beens. She laughed to herself again - there were quite a few. Men were such interesting creatures.

Howard, who wanted to collect her and make her a prize trophy and put her on a shelf. She shuddered at the horror of what could have been.

George Stevens, whose love affair with the camera had eclipsed their own moment of love during filming. She could understand that. You did not work in the film industry without being at least a little bit addicted to the process, the ride. Relationships that formed during filming seldom caught fire and held for long. Best just to enjoy them as they happened and say goodbye afterwards.

Little Jimmy, who towered over her and whom she could twist around her little finger. Oh, the fun they had had! She should have married him instead of the losers. Oh, well. Hindsight was always 20/20.

Then there was Cary, the other man she should have married. She had never quite figured out what had – and had not – happened between them. It was not in her nature to slow down and find out, either. Maybe he could have been the love of her life. She sighed. Men fell at her feet, begged her to give them the time of day, to be the one she took home at night, to be the one to grow old with her.

It was ironic that the only man that she had truly wanted was the only man who couldn’t give himself to her entirely. 

Her mind tried to shy away from this memory, but she had never been able to stay away. That had always been the problem, the inability to stay away. This memory hurt. Fred had been gone since 1987, but it felt like yesterday that the reporters – those vipers – were on her front doorstep, demanding a quote from her on the day that he had died. Fuck them and the horse they rode in on. Still, she had been a lady and given a sound bite as expected. Always acting, playing the part allotted to her, in life and on film. People did not give her enough credit for being an actress and they never would, either – little did they know just how much she had concealed, or how well she and Fred had hidden everything that had happened between them. Fifty seven glorious years. That is what her and Fred had enjoyed, off and on, from their meeting in 1930 until his death in 1987. It was a long time. It was far too short. And she had had to share, too, which she had hated with every fiber of her being. The arguments, the dances, the sex, the pretending, the prevaricating, the love, the hiding. They’d had it all, and nothing, at the same time.

Speaking of nothing, she had nothing left, really. Just this big house in the desert, some baubles, a little money put away, some horses. She had outlived most of her friends, despite having diabetes and refusing medical care on religious grounds. Her friends were slipping away from her, one at a time. George Gershwin was first of course, in 1937, from that horrible brain tumor. Carole Lombard in a plane crash in 1942, poor thing. George Stevens, her director, and sometime lover from Swing Time, in 1975. Howard Hughes, that controlling bastard, in 1976, good riddance. Her beloved mother Lela in 1977; she could not imagine how it had been so long. Blue eyed sweetheart Bill Powell in 1984, her longtime friends Lucy and Bette, both in 1989. Her beloved choreographer, dance teacher and first friend, Hermes Pan in 1990; that one really hurt, too. She missed his spaghetti and his sense of humor. Funny, quiet Cary Grant, a fabulous kisser, in 1986. And Fred, of course, in 1987, of pneumonia.

A few of her lovers, husbands and friends were still alive - Jimmy, and her former husbands Lew, Jack, Jacques, and William were all still kicking, former flame Alfred Vanderbilt Jr. was still alive, along with little Annie Miller. Her beloved cousin Phyllis Frasier and her faithful secretary Roberta Olden were around the house somewhere, sleeping now but taking care of her these past few months and doing traffic control with those who had come to pay their respects over the last few months. They had made a slow parade of goodbye’s because that’s what this was all leading up to. 

Ginger knew that. She did not wear rose tinted glasses. She simply did not have the energy to care that much. A few years ago, she had fallen down a flight of stairs and that had been the beginning of the end. Imagine that! The great dancer Ginger Rogers, falling down a flight of stairs, like some flat footed klutz. It had been embarrassing and yet she had refused to be hidden away in her home, to fritter away the last years of her life, hiding. Everyone got old, if they were lucky. To hell with pretending everything was all right, though. It most certainly was not. She did not like being dependent upon anyone else, and this injury had forced her into a wheelchair to get along. It cramped her style in a big way. It made her feel like an invalid, and that infuriated her. It especially annoyed her when all the talk about doctors and medical care inevitably started up again. As a devout Christian Scientist, she had to trust that what happened to her, happened for a reason and to mess with the cards that life threw you was to show a lack of faith. She and her caregivers had had many exasperating conversations. Getting old and falling apart sucked. In the privacy of her mind, she would use those words, though in public, she would never have uttered them. A lady did not speak like that. Usually.

The birds outside the window were louder now. They did not sound like the birds in the Hollywood Hills where she had had a home for decades. The days were long gone when she was a golden princess of old Hollywood, perched in her mansion on the hillside, with its view of the whole of the City of Angels, with its addictive twinkling lights and glamorous nights. Nor where they the birds up in Oregon, where she had owned a working ranch for fifty years. When she tired of Los Angeles, with its cutthroat film industry, she had escaped and sought after cutthroat trout in the raging Rogue River which ran along the edge of her huge chunk of property. She wished she were there now, with the sweet smell of the hay fields growing hot and green, or dusty and golden as they were cut, the air a gilded swirl of chaff. She missed the sound of the Rogue as it raged in the spring down the hill from her home, past it and out to sea. She never should have sold it. Then again, Oregon winters were awful and the drive into town had gotten more and more difficult as she aged. She sighed. Still, she would have liked to have seen it once again. She had chosen the desert community of Rancho Mirage in the sunny Coachella Valley as a way to escape L.A. and warm her aching bones. She would make her last stand here. 

As she lay there, she realized that she had been there a long time, maybe days even. Her body was heavy and swollen, and seemed to react to her demands for movement sluggishly, if at all. Her back muscles were spasming, her hips ached, her knees throbbed – but her feet felt fine. Ginger laughed quietly to herself, wiggling her toes. Despite years of dancing on hard, unyielding floors, her feet had never hurt. They had been damaged superficially – bruising and bleeding from excessive hours of brutal rehearsals and footwear that caused blisters as her feet swelled – but they never actually hurt. Now they were the only part of her that did not hurt, except for maybe her eyelids. Her head throbbed, she was dizzy but for the first time in a very long time, she felt clear headed, and sharp as a tack.  


A big part of her just wanted to get it all over with, to face the last enemy and tackle head on whatever came next, if anything. She tried to remind herself that the world was illusion, but it did not help that this illusion was agony. But most of all, she was just plain tired. She remembered the days when she was fast – fast at speeding in her car and getting stopped by police officers, fast at memorizing dialog, fast at picking up dance steps, and she was tireless. Now, she was slow. Nothing happened quickly. The world had narrowed to what she ate for meals, and reading the newspapers, which was unilaterally depressing, and the occasionally visitor, and daily visits with her faithful secretary Roberta, the housekeeper, and the grounds keeper. She hardly even got to see her horses stabled behind the house on the 5-acre property. It didn’t matter now. Her legacy wasn’t the horses, or anything else she left behind. What she and Fred had danced would live on, at least, if everything else was forgotten.

Fred. Soft hazel eyes that looked into her soul. The shy duck of his head. Gentle and strong hands around her waist, making her fly through the air. Hurried, desperate sex in dressing rooms, leisurely sex in her house as they aged. Losing herself in his arms in front of the cameras. Comfortable dinners in his family room with his nearly grown kids. More laughter than two people should be able to share. The last time she saw him, frail and somehow already translucent, as if the light could pass right through the transparent fragility of his body. The eight years without him. Eight lonely years where she would have given anything to hear his voice again, to hear his signature whistle as he came on set or to her doorstep, to have his voice sing her to sleep. The bird song grew distant. She floated, the welcoming silence marred only by a buzzing noise and few muffled voices as she drifted, and sank into twilight.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

More birdsong broke the heavy darkness in which she lingered. She resented it. It was warm and comfortable here, and she felt infinitely heavy. However, the birds were insistent. Gradually she became aware that she was lying down and that an arm dangled, swaying in a way that was not completely comfortable. She pulled it up and held her own hands on her stomach, feeling the soft fabric under her fingers. The bench below her was hard, she noticed. The darkness gave way to grey and she swam towards consciousness. Her lips gasped for air and in a moment, she broke the surface and opened her eyes. A cloudless, bright blue sky was above her. A portion of a roofline came into focus, and she followed it idly, without any determination. The roofline gave way to the corner of a building. Stone, with beautiful wood corner posts, drew her eyes in. The cement bench underneath her became more uncomfortable, rough and rigid under her body.

She became aware of her legs and drew in a deep breath. Sitting up suddenly, as if the decision was not hers, she swung her legs down and onto the pavement. Looking down with disinterest, she discovered that she was wearing one of her favorite pairs of shoes. The grey rehearsal slacks were familiar, too. The pink, short sleeved sweater was also one of her favorites and her curly blond hair swished on her shoulders.

Her curly blond hair had not swished on her shoulders for years. Abruptly, she really opened her eyes and took a good look around. The old country club from her movie “Carefree”, where she and Fred had danced “the Yam”, came into focus. What in the hell was this all about, she thought irritably. A moment later, the sound of barking hounds impinged upon her hearing. Getting louder, she wondered idly if she should be worried. On the other hand, the sun was shining, and she was warm and still a bit foggy, so she sat where she was and wondered as the sound grew much louder. After another moment, a huge pack of dogs, not hounds, bounded into view. Some were big, and some were small, but she knew each of them instantly. Astounded, she let them jump in her lap and lick her cheeks, while she laughed until she cried, and pushed them down off of her if they were big or hugged them if they were small. As a dog person, she had had a lot of dogs over her lifetime. In a hurry, the pack of dogs jumped down and rushed around the side of the building.

A cold chill settled over her. “Over her lifetime” ran through her mind. Now wait just a minute here! She looked at her hands. They were small, well-manicured – and young. Standing up, she looked around at her body in astonishment. Looking into the glass window of the country club, she could see by her reflection that she appeared to be about thirty years old. She touched her hair and her face and her reflection did the same. The hair and slim frame were exactly as she had been around the time she had filmed "Carefree", way back in 1938.

She sank back down onto the bench. Trembling, she tried to take shaky breaths. 

Warm hands took hers. Unable to concentrate, she clutched them and focused on them until she could get her breathing under control. Unbidden, the memory of Fred’s voice appeared in her mind, “Focus, we can’t discuss anything if you’re crying too hard to listen.” He had told her that once, at a low point in her life. She choked back a sob and swallowed the lump in her throat and regained her equilibrium slowly.

She had forgotten that she held someone’s hand. Looking up, she found a man sitting next to her. He was wearing sandals, short light blue linen pants and a comfortable looking tan cotton tee shirt. His skin was a burnished gold, sun darkened, and his black curly, short hair framed a merry face with smile lines around his eyes. His eyes were brown… no, they were not. They swirled into starlight and galaxies and suddenly Ginger realized who sat next to her.

She slid to her knees on the ground, unrelenting trembling shaking her small frame. He still held her hands, though, and did not let go. She had always enjoyed religious belief, but had wondered in the back of her mind if it were all really true. She had desperately clung to her beliefs as her love life, her career and eventually her body crumbled around her. It had been her comfort all those many years. Now, she knew it was true.

He laughed. “Ginger, get up” he said, and pulled her back up on to the bench. Not daring to look at Him again, she gulped back her sobs. 

“I am who you think I am, and so much more,” He said, “Did you think that your finite mind could fathom the infinite? No, my dear one, this is just the beginning.”

“Wow,” was all she could think to say, knowing that it was woefully inadequate.

He threw His head back and laughed again. Ginger got the idea that He loved to laugh and did so often. The birds sang louder as He did so. That made Ginger begin to laugh, too.

“That’s my girl. Everything is okay.” He moved a strand of hair off her face and tucked it gently behind her ear. She dared to look at Him. A gentle smile creased His face and His eyes twinkled with the light of a thousand suns. She looked away; He was much too real to take in. 

“I have many places to be, so I must leave you now, though I am always here,” He said cryptically, but somehow Ginger knew exactly what He meant. “Go through these doors. Your people are waiting for you.”

“My people?” Ginger asked, astonished. Her people, her loved ones? Hope blossomed in her chest like a balloon.

“Yes, and more than you could possibly imagine. Some have waited a long time for you and others are still arriving as we speak.” Suddenly she could hear the rumblings of a crowd of thousands, like a wave breaking about them, though she could not see anyone.

He stood up and pulled at her hands until she was on her feet. She took one last sidelong look at His smiling face and squared her shoulders. He let go of her hand. It was as if His presence had concentrated into a human figure, and He now returned to being nowhere in particular and everywhere in essence. Mediterranean sand scattered the floor and bright stardust trailed in His wake. With His approval, she could face anything. She steeled herself. 

The solid wood, glass and wrought iron door of the country club was heavier than she had expected. She heaved and the barrier swung out towards her, and she slipped inside cautiously, her shoes making no sound on the deep carpet. The entry way was just as she remembered, the expensive rugs, the chandeliers made of deer antlers, the candles in their wrought iron sconces. As she listened, she could hear a distant cacophony of voices coming from one of the rooms down the hallway. She followed the noise.

Pulling the door apart, and stepping inside, she was assaulted by the jubilant noise of a hundred voices all excitedly calling out, and a room packed with bodies. Suddenly in front of her, a small woman pushed her way through and yanked Ginger into her arms. Surrounded by her mother’s signature perfume, she surrendered to the warmth and kindness of her mother’s arms that she had missed for so long, for so many years. Lela Rogers hugged her daughter tightly to her, smothering her with kisses and squeezing so hard that Ginger had a hard time catching her breath. Eventually, Lela let go of her. Hands patted her on the shoulders and pounded her jovially on the back, tossing her along to the next group of enthusiastic huggers until she felt like she was dancing. Ginger swung from person to person, almost all of her loved ones, until she felt like she was in the middle of a whirlwind. 

The smiling, occasionally crying faces, rushed past her – George and his brother Ira, Lucy and Hermes, her cousins and grandparents, childhood friends, co-workers and crew on dozens of films, security guards, doormen, her favorite waiters, and drivers, neighbors, and a hundred others. She started laughing, caught up in the exultant welcome. Outside the broad floor to ceiling windows, she could see an enormous crowd of excited people politely cheering and waving. She waved back, causing a ripple effect that ran back through the throng.

After a few moments, she sat down to catch her breath. Her strong body sat lightly on the chair and she spent a moment simply reveling in the feelings of vigor and vitality that coursed through her body. 

A melody impinged upon her consciousness. Quiet at first, it grew. 

“Heaven… I’m in heaven…”

Indeed, she was, she thought. She looked around but the crowd was still milling about her, blocking her vision. She waited, gripping the seat under her until her knuckles were white. She knew this voice.  


"And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…”

Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, that for a moment it physically hurt. Adrenaline dumped into her stomach, and she suddenly had to fight the tears that threatened to obscure her vision. She hid her face in her hands and looked down into her lap, overcome by her emotions at last. 

“.. and I seem to find the happiness I seek…” 

The crowd parted and that familiar stride tapped across the floor and stopped right in front of her. 

“…when we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.”

The strains of the song drifted away in his gentle voice. She would know that voice anywhere, that perfect diction, the soft tenor tone. She took her hands down and watched in amazement as her grey slack and pink shirt dissolved into the glorious baby blue ostrich feather gown that she had worn for that famous dance. 

Looking up with shining eyes and a smile that could vie with the sun, she was immersed in the gentle hazel gaze of her dancing partner, lover and beloved. For fifty-seven years they had been each other’s everything.

Fred held out his hand to her, glowing with health and vitality and pure love. The friends and family sighed in delight and melted to the side of the room in anticipation. The crowd quieted outside. Inside the room, Ginger only had eyes for him.

“Shall we dance?”

She took his hand and the eternal music began.

Together, they danced.

**Author's Note:**

> I dreamed this last night and had to write it.


End file.
